


Pretty

by JenniferHawke



Series: Written in Starlight [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferHawke/pseuds/JenniferHawke
Summary: Pretty had no place in his world. That was, until he met Hawke.Part one of the Written in Starlight series.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: Written in Starlight [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567765
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	Pretty

There was no room for the word “pretty” in Fenris’ life. Not as a slave.

When he thinks of “pretty”, he recalls the immaculate paintings adorning the halls of Danarius’ estate.  _ “Pretty, aren’t they?”  _ Hadriana taunted one day when she caught him staring at the array of vibrant colours on the canvas.  _ “Eyes down, filth. I would not have the gaze of a slave taint their value.”  _

When he thinks of “pretty”, he is reminded of the time when Danarius caught his eyes linger for a moment too long on another elven slave who had recently been purchased, golden hair shimmering in the daylight, tight clothing displaying her every curve.  _ “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”  _ Danarius asked. _ “Do you desire her?” _

_ “No, Master. I - “  _

_ “Now Fenris. You know I have little patience for dishonesty,” _ the magister had said. “I am your Master, and you will have eyes only for me.” Tears fell on ruddy cheeks as the whip broke his skin on the tenth blow, and he wondered if his punishment would have been less severe if he admitted his attraction to the other slave. He somehow doubted it. 

From then on, Fenris cast his eyes down whenever he heard the word pretty.  _ “My, what a pretty sunset,” _ Hadriana would say on a warm summer’s eve as he followed exactly two steps behind, his eyes refusing to take in the sky above. He never stopped to admire the little things in life that one might consider “pretty”: the fresh dusting of snow on Satinalia, the blooming of flowers once winter’s bite had long since passed. He learned to think of little more than his Master’s wants and needs. There was no room for “pretty” in a slave’s life.

On his twentieth night with the Fog Warriors, Fenris looked up at the star speckled sky, hoping to feel moved by it.

_ “What are you looking at?” _ Akarah, one of the warriors asked him.

_ “I’m not certain. I’m simply looking because I can _ .”

Fenris supposed Akarah was pretty in her own way. That was, until he was ordered to cut her down. His blade tore through her flesh as if she were as fragile as the pretty little baubles Danarius had coveted so. And when the dirt was stained with a crimson river that flowed from the Warriors who had so kindly taken him in, he turned on his heel and he ran. Even as Danarius ordered him to stop, even as the sour stench of blood magic filled his nose, he gave little thought other than to run far, far away.

Pretty had no place in his world. 

That was, until he met Hawke.

He hadn’t admired her for her beauty the first time he laid eyes on her, descending the stone steps of the Lowtown alienage. He saw a skilled woman who had defeated Danarius’ slavers for him. A promising ally, should she accept his request for help. And while he half expected her to decline upon discovering he was an escaped slave, one who wished to take down a powerful magister, she readily offered her aid, despite the fact that he deceived her in the first place. Despite the fact that he was nothing but a stranger. When her own magic revealed itself in the midst of battle, Fenris had the urge to turn away afterwards, to cut ties from the mage from that moment on. But he owed her a debt, and Fenris still had his honour.

But a whole year passed since that fateful night, and Hawke is no longer a stranger. She has become something reminiscent of an ally, but more than that, she calls him her  _ friend. _ Friendship is not something the elf ever dared to covet, a word even more forbidden than pretty. But  _ pretty  _ no longer feels so terrifying to Fenris.

He first thought Hawke as pretty when he heard her laugh for the first time, cerulean eyes crinkling at the corners as the lovely lilted song spilled forth from her mouth. It is a sound that often accompanies a tankard of ale or two during Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite. When he thinks of the word pretty, he thinks of how Hawke looks in the rain, fat droplets cascading across her face, her dark hair clinging to her neck. As they huddle in a cavern to escape the storm on the Wounded Coast, the dwarf and the abomination complain of wet boots and cold flesh. But all Fenris can fixate on are the droplets falling across Hawke’s face from her drenched hair. It takes everything inside of him to stop himself from reaching out and wiping them away, to discover how her skin feels beneath his own. He scolds himself then … these feelings are dangerous and they have no place in his life. Not when so much is at stake. Not with Danarius still out there somewhere.

But as time passes, the infatuation inside him only grows. No longer is Hawke simply a companion, or just another mage in a world full of pain and despair. She is purpose. She is promises of a better life, of a new tomorrow. She is stolen glances when no one is looking, brushing of fingers when she teaches him to read. She is laughter and hope and everything good in the world. With each passing day, his heart soars ever higher, grows ever larger when she shoots him  _ that  _ look, the one that tells him his desire is not one sided. Soon, pretty no longer scares him, for Hawke is the prettiest wish he ever dared dream of. 

Now, Fenris has all the room for “pretty” in his world.


End file.
